


Day 3: Provocation

by ofplanet_earth



Series: 30 days of Barduil [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bard is a cheeky little shit, Canon Compliant, Clothing swap, M/M, Mortality, Post-Canon, Smut, Thranduil loves it, that shit is a downer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 18:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5138366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard tries on the Elvenking's robes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 3: Provocation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LoveActuallyFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/gifts).



> another prompt requested by LoveActuallyFan! yesterday was her birthday, and what better way to celebrate than with a good old clothing swap?
> 
> it's been brought to my attention that this is not a simple clothing swap piece, that it in fact turned out to be much more depressing than I thought. 
> 
> I'm sorry in advance for what you're about to read, but please know that I'll make up for it tomorrow!

“What, pray tell, do you think you’re doing, Master Bargeman?” The man sat in Thranduil’s quarters, in the chair before the fireplace, where Thranduil himself would sit when entertaining company. But it was not _where_ he sat that had caught the Elvenking’s attention.

“Bargeman? I’ve not been called that for some years now.” He was dressed in Thranduil’s own kingly tunic, his boots on his feet and his Autumn crown perched atop his greying hair. 

“Some years yes, but not so long from where I stand.” 

“Yes, you’ve mentioned as much.” Bard sighed. “I helped myself to a bit of wine. I hope you don’t mind.” 

“You know you are welcome to all the amenities my kingdom has to offer,”

“Then won’t you sit and enjoy them with me?” 

Thranduil moved to the chair opposite the King of Dale, but found it occupied. Bard’s own robes of deep blue and gold sat in heaps on the seat. “It would seem you’ve helped yourself to more than my wine. I ask again; what are you doing?” 

“You always look so comfortable in this chair,” the Bargeman propped his feet up on the low table between them, a playful smirk stretched across his mouth. “Now I can see why.” 

“Have I not gifted you with elven- made finery of your own?” The elf motioned to the clothes piled on the second chair before the fireplace.

“Aye, that you have.” 

“Forgive me, for I fear my question was unclear: why then are you wearing _my_ robes?” 

The smirk spread to a grin on the man’s face, wide and bright and promptly devoured by the Elvenking. “I was curious.”

“And are you enjoying yourself, _Master Bargeman?_ ” 

“Aye,” The Bowman’s smile only grew. “Immensely.”

“A pity then, that you will not be wearing them for much longer.” Thranduil stepped around the table and leaned down to slide his own boots from his lover’s feet. He stood tall again and held his hand out as an invitation. The Dragonslayer placed his hand in the Elvenking’s and stood, promptly pulling Thranduil closer and kissing him soundly. Wine clung to his lips and lingered on his tongue and somehow, the effect of it was more intoxicating than even a barrel filled with the finest Dorwinion. He delved his tongue deep and drank all he could, but the man broke away too soon, his eyes heavy- lidded and his chest heaving from the lack of air.

So fragile, this man, who had slain a dragon and yet could neither kiss nor be kissed properly without fear of swooning. Thranduil would never be able to get enough. He pushed aside the clench and ache of his chest and focused instead on the clasp at the Bowman’s throat.

His robes were tailored expertly by the best Elven craftsmen, but they were not made for the mortal man who wore them now. His arms were solid enough, though too short for the sleeves. He was broad in the chest and shoulders but his frame was not as long as Thranduil’s and so the hem of the garment pooled on the stone floor where he stood. 

“I must confess, I prefer you in the blue of your own banner, or better still, in nothing at all.” 

The King of Men laughed at this, a deep and hearty sound that echoed loud against the stone walls of his chambers. “I humbly defer to your better judgement, My Lord.” 

“In this room— in your presence— I am no one’s Lord or King, Bowman. Have I not told you this?” 

“Have you not also said that we are equals, in your kingdom as well as mine?” 

“I have,” 

“And yet you call me Bargeman, Dragonslayer, and King. Even in this room. Even when we are alone. Must I tell you as many times as you’ve told me? I would hear my name upon your lips.” 

“No,” the Elvenking looked upon the Dragonslayer— the king of Dale— his lover, and raised his hand to caress the curve of his cheek, where his own crown twisted and curled to a point. “You need not tell me again, Bard.” 

The man smiled at this and leaned up to cover Thranduil’s lips with his own again, determined as ever to match the elf even when his body could withstand not half the strain his own could. This kiss, Thranduil broke himself in favour of leading Bard to the bedchamber, toward the fresh linens and soft down quilts where he could discover and lay claim to all of Bard’s skin.

Bard was ever eager and began to undo the ties of Thranduil’s tunic as they stood before the bed. But Thranduil stilled his hands, determined to draw this night out, to make it last as long as he dared. Each time Bard visited him, Thranduil would promise himself: no longer would he torture himself by caring for a mortal man. But then Bard would smile and Thranduil was reminded again of how precious this man was in the face of his impermanence. He ought to savour it rather than rue their short length of time together.

He pulled at the clasps on Bard’s chest, one at a time until the tunic fell to the floor at their feet. All at once, Bard’s chest was bare and within reach and Thranduil could not help but to dip down and taste the salt of his skin. He was hardened by his short years, rough and scarred from his hardships and battles. Thranduil sank to his knees before him, let his hands find their own slow path down the ridges of his chest and the taut muscles of his sides.

Bard was left only in Thranduil's leggings, tight enough that the leather clung to Bard's strong thighs and tented where his cock was beginning to strain. The Elvenking smirked and brought his head down, breathed hot air against the laces that held him and nudged the hollow of Bard's hips with his nose. 

Bard groaned, his chest heaved and his stomach tensed under Thranduil’s hands. He so loved to feel him come apart this way, desperate already after only the slightest provocation. But the Elvenking wasn’t done yet. He rose to his feet again and nudged him backwards, until his knees met the edge of the bed. Bard sat without being prompted, twisted his hands in the tunic Thranduil wore and pulled him to meet him in a kiss.

Thranduil allowed this, though he resisted the urge to give into Bard’s intentions completely. He knelt on the bed, one knee on either side of the Bowman’s hips. He tangled his hands in Bard’s hair, only to find the branches and leaves of his own crown. He lifted it from his head, careful not to disturb the delicate weave of the flora, and placed it on the table beside the bed.

“You presume much, arriving unannounced, without an escort or any manners to speak of.” Thranduil turned his attentions to the heated skin of Bard’s neck. “Elves far older and far wiser than you would find themselves locked in my dungeons for crimes such as this.”

“Luckily for me, I am not as old or wise as an elf. Perhaps that is the advantage of being a man: that my youth excuses my actions?” 

“I assure you,” Thranduil murmured against Bard’s lips, “It is not your age that protects you from such punishments. Even so, I would not test your luck, were I in your position.” 

“And what is my _position_?” Bard’s hips raised off the bed to meet Thranduil’s then, his skin hot even through the leather of their trousers and his cock insistent against his thigh. The Elvenking sighed and let his head fall back, an uncharacteristic reaction to all but his present company.

“Beneath me,” His voice was not much more than a growl as he pushed Bard’s shoulders so that he fell back to lie on the bed. He planted his legs more firmly astride Bard’s hips and was free to trace the lines of his chest again. “And at my mercy.” 

Bard smirked and slid further towards the centre of the bed, sat up again and began to loosen the laces of Thranduil’s tunic, plainer in design and perhaps less kingly than the robes Bard had wrapped himself in, but no less fine. 

“Then I beg you,” Bard whispered against the base of the Elvenking’s neck. “Show me mercy.” The man pulled Thranduil's tunic up and over his head and pressed kiss after kiss to the smooth planes of his chest, impertinent and bold as ever. 

Thranduil said nothing, for Bard’s hands were cool as they began unlacing his leggings. He had to call upon all his restraint to keep from crying out and rutting against his lover, though surely Bard would not begrudge him such reactions. Rough and glottal noises were streaming from his tanned throat as his hands wrapped around the Elvenking’s girth and tugged with all the finesse and skill of a young man. 

Thranduil lived for moments like these— found himself yearning for Bard’s company even as he watched him ride away towards Dale. He always vowed to return, but Thranduil was ever aware that each time the future visits grew smaller in number. The Bowman was older already than he had been the first time he’d taken him to bed, and older still than the first time they had met on the eve of battle. His children were nearly grown and that, perhaps more so than the lines of his face, marked the passage of time more clearly. 

It was true that the brightest flames were extinguished more quickly. But Thranduil could not find the will to regret a moment of their time together; only to covet it more each time. Bard was a treasure, more precious than all the gems and gold and power to be found in this world. 

The calloused pads of his fingers were gifts, given freely and always welcome. The desperate sounds that spilled from his mouth were the penance Thranduil demanded when they had been parted for too long. He revelled in the heat of Bard’s skin and the sharp hitch of his breath, drew deliberate gasps from his chest with his teeth and his skilled elven tongue. 

Surely, Thranduil could have any man woman or elf that he desired. But he desired Bard. He was pliant and yet strong, reverent but wicked, and oh, was he ever hungry for more. Thranduil clutched at handfuls of Bard’s thighs and swallowed down his hard length, driven onward by the shocked and desperate sounds that burst from his throat. 

Their time together was fleeting. Thranduil knew this. He ought to spare himself the pain— end it now and cut his losses. The neighbouring city of men was a constant reminder of his lover’s mortality. Each time he visited, he was plagued with thoughts of the fast-approaching day when he would have to say goodbye. But each sound of the Bowman’s moans drove these thoughts further from his mind.

Perhaps, Thranduil thought, it was better to love truly and deeply— even for such a short while— than to never love at all.

**Author's Note:**

> you can still [send me an ask](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/ask) to submit a prompt!  
> I like to tag [inspiration](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/30-days-of-barduil) for the stories I write. 
> 
> and you can track my word count on [my WriMo novel page](http://nanowrimo.org/participants/ofplanet-earth/novels/30-days-of-barduil) or [my tumblr](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/nanowrimo).


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